


Sport of Circumstance

by Argyle



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-22
Updated: 2004-03-22
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: The famed meeting.





	Sport of Circumstance

Soft tendrils of mist clung to the surface of the water, stretching toward the length of the shore and parting with the gentle coaxing of the breeze and the movement of boats across the waves. The spokes of the early-afternoon sun shone against the lumbering cloud formations and to the height of the alpine peaks, collecting reflections to the haze of Lake Geneva. Lord Byron paused in his rowing, letting the handle of the oar settle against his knees, and dashed a hand across his brow to the beads of sweat that had accumulated there. The air, thickly laden with the confectionary scent of fresh flower pollen, caught against his cheeks and ruffled the loose fabric of his open collar. He gazed across the reaches of the water, quietly marveling at the silver and emerald extent of the mountains. His party had arrived in Geneva late the evening before and he had not been able to make out the true sight of Mont Blanc against the dark hem of the sky, instead exhaustedly collapsing into his rooms at the Hotel de l’Angleterre.

Breathing in deeply, Byron took up the oar in his hands once more and glanced toward Polidori. The doctor sat next to him, his knees brushing against the wooden plank of the opposite seat, knuckles white with his heavy grip on the oar. Byron watched Polidori’s eyes wander across the horizon, lingering on an outcrop of rock here and the sprawling shape of a stone villa there. The younger man was visibly uncomfortable as the sun fell heatedly against his black frock coat and the dark curls of his hair clung against his temple damply, though he seemed to be similarly impressed by the grandeur of the mountains. A smile passed across Byron’s lips as Polidori met his gaze, at once realizing that he was being watched. The doctor flushed, clearing his throat and looking away, and lifted his elbows with a frown as though to indicate his sudden wish to continue on. Byron’s grin broadened as he nodded, moving his oar against the water.

Minutes passed as they rowed in silence, their weight mobile and the movements of their oars nearly in unison as the small boat glided across the sterling spread of the lake. Polidori shifted against the lightly varnished wood of the seat, opening his mouth for a moment to speak and closing it again with a shake of his head. Byron arched a brow and after a moment began to briskly hum, the heavy din of the notes escaping from deep within his throat and echoing dimly on the curve of the water.

“It really is magnificent,” Polidori said at last with a sharp glance over his shoulder toward the poet. Byron stopped his song, a smile grazing over his lips as Polidori faltered over his words. “The view, I mean.”

“Mm.” Byron nodded as he moved his shoulders, positioning the oar further into the green glaze of the water.

“You know, I once wrote…” the doctor trailed off, realizing his words and the gleam of jest in Byron’s eyes.

“What?” Byron prodded with a grin. “Do tell me, doctor. What did you write?”

Polidori shook his head, looking away. After a quiet moment, he cleared his throat, beginning again, “My lord, the letter you received last night after we settled into the rooms…”

“Yes?”

“Was it bad news?” Polidori now matched Byron’s grin.

Byron laughed shortly. “My dear doctor,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk. “You have no idea.”

“Ah, excellent.” Polidori beamed, the dark frame of his lashes bounding forth from the pale crease of his eyes as his gaze lingered on Byron. He then swallowed, shifting his hands against the rough handle of the oar, and said again, “It really is magnificent.”

Byron shook his head with a begrudging sigh, his eyes grazing across the approaching hem of the shoreline. Hanging vines and swaying lavender bushes grew in lush bunches before the edge of the shallow waters there, shadowing the sands below. The letter that he had received at that late hour had been from Claire, who had pursued him across the continent, against the muddy grip of eight-hundred miles, in order to rid him of his philosophy, or so she had hoped. Yes, he could perhaps do without her unrelenting presence.

Holding a hand to screen the glare of the sun from his eyes, Byron turned in his seat, straining to glimpse the figures now standing on the shore of the lake, one hundred yards away. One form waved openly toward him -- yes, it was Claire, flanked on either side by a man and a woman.

“Damn,” Byron said as he shook his head, grimacing and catching Polidori’s eye. The doctor frowned, turning against the wooden side-planks and arching his neck to better see the party on the shore, and again to Byron, who had half-risen from his seat.

“What is it?” Polidori asked as he set his oar aside.

“I’ll only be a moment.” Byron straightened the fabric of his collar restlessly and hopped out of the boat with a swift movement, splashing softly to the water. He looked up to Polidori with a nod and said, “Just stay here, hmm?”

“But, I...”

Byron turned away before Polidori was able to continue on with his protest, walking steadily through the cool water that met his knees. As he reached the damp line of the beach, he squared his shoulders, slowing his pace slightly and concentrating on keeping the visibility of his limp to a minimum.

“Byron!” Claire cried, “How good of you to come ashore!” She reached forward as Byron approached, taking his hand tightly in her own.

“Of course.” Byron swallowed, a slim smile playing across his lips as he met her gaze. “Your presence here… is a delightful surprise.”

She had caught the sun and her cheeks were ruddy against the mahogany waves of her hair, her dark eyes darting over Byron’s form, lingering for a moment on his hands and back to his face once more. “You needn’t contemplate consolations, my lord. Allow me to introduce you,” she began, making an airy gesture toward the others. “This is Percy Shelley... and Mary.”

“Shelley. Of course.” Byron nodded, his gaze falling on Shelley. He was slightly shorter than Byron and his loose cotton shirt, a pure white that matched his soft pallor evenly, draped coolly over his slight form and parted at the base of his throat. Thick brown curls, twining golden threads of light, bound forth at his temples and cheeks from the shadow of his great straw sunhat. Byron loosened his hand from Claire’s grasp and extended it toward him.

Shelley nodded, shaking Byron’s hand softly. “Lord Byron… It -- it is a pleasure.” The hesitant yet melodic tone of his voice sent a sleek shiver down Byron’s spine. Shelley’s violet eyes, bright and eager against the warm crease of his lashes, blinked back the spears of sunlight that filtered through the bows of the overhanging trees.

“The pleasure is my own.” Byron hesitated, seeing Shelley turn his gaze away. “I’m very fond of your work.”

“I hadn’t...”

“Ah, I fear that my reputation may precede me.” He glanced quickly to Claire and back to Shelley.

Shelley shook his head, the light frame of his curls brushing against his collar. “Nonsense, I had only...” he trailed off once more, raising a tentative hand to his mouth. Shelley then looked anxiously toward Mary, who stood with her fingers clasped lightly at her waist. As she tilted her head swiftly toward the dock and offshore, Byron followed her gaze to the small boat that Polidori still sat in, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

Byron leaned toward Shelley with a hurried movement, setting his hand lightly upon the other’s shoulder. He brought his face close to Shelley’s and whispered quickly, “Dine with me this evening, shall we say seven o’clock?” As he felt Shelley’s hand lightly brush against his own, he added with a smile, “Do not bring Claire.”

Byron stepped back, seeing Shelley nod; his cheeks flushed as his violet gaze darted to Claire and an awkward smile played across his features.

“Ladies, it has been an honor.” Byron bowed with a low and sweeping motion, his upturned palm gliding quickly through the air. Grinning with a final glance to Shelley, he turned away, his boots once more meeting the cool tug of the water.

“Consumptive,” Polidori stated with a sharp nod as Byron approached. “Mr. Shelley, I presume?” He reached an open palm toward Byron with a grin.

“Yes...” Taking Polidori’s grip within his own, Byron swung himself against the ledge of the boat. He arched a brow, a smile playing across his lips. “How did you know?”

“Oh.” The doctor raised his chin in apparent disdain and lightly closed his eyes. “I garnered it from the motion of his mouth.” Glancing with a smirk to the drops of water that fell from Byron’s wet breeches to the floorboards, he quickly added, “I pay attention.”

“Indeed?”

“His theories are insightful, however naive.”

“That’s quite enough, doctor,” Byron drawled, settling back onto the seat and pulling the oar into his hands. Polidori laughed shortly and looked at Byron with a heavily-lidded gaze, shifting uncomfortably against the wooden plank beneath him. Byron shook his head, his brow furrowing as he remembered the touch of Shelley’s long fingers against the back of his hand. The breeze dashed the curls from his temples and he shivered slightly, looking now to the increasingly grey hue of the sky above. The formations of a storm hung against the mountains, an arc of tungsten cloud tugging on the horizon, and a crack of low thunder sounded in the distance.

“Rain within the hour,” Polidori mumbled, pulling at the edges of his cuffs anxiously.

“You know,” Byron said as his eyes met Polidori’s, “I am certain that Mr. Shelley would be most pleased to discuss his theories with you this evening should you choose to dine with us.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes.” He nodded, his cheeks flushing. “Yes, of course.”

Byron chuckled as he pulled against the water with his oar, maneuvering the boat toward the dock. He closed his eyes against the brittle afternoon light and imagined the first drops as they would soon fall smoothly to his face with the hushed promise of the evening’s tide.


End file.
